Okay, folks. I need your help. I am going to write about The Mumbler and RiverMannonite next, but Marcie had a beautiful wit and a very unique sense of humor. I would like to share that side of her, as well.
Marcie interacted with me differently from how she she interacted with her friends. Share some of your stories about your moments of silliness, joy or humor with her with me and let me know if i can post them.
Moments of her wisdom, intelligence, cleverness or quirkiness would be wonderful to share, too.
Thanks, folks!
Showing posts with label Gifts. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Gifts. Show all posts
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Pictures from the patio garden
I took a few shots of the patio garden and a few of the yard in front. Keep in mind that when Marcie and I moved in, the yard was all rocks with a layer of cloth underneath. It's now almost overgrown, cloth be damned. The larger plants on the porch are up for adoption, and I have good cilantro seeds to send out.
Tanya helped me repot most of these plants when Marcie was very ill. We arranged them to give her a nicer outside view from her hospital bed.
Just let me know what you want and such, and I will send it. Those are jalapeño plants, by the way. If they or the tomato plants bear fruit, some will be reserved for seed and I can send some out from that as well. Let's hope they make it.
Tanya helped me repot most of these plants when Marcie was very ill. We arranged them to give her a nicer outside view from her hospital bed.
Just let me know what you want and such, and I will send it. Those are jalapeño plants, by the way. If they or the tomato plants bear fruit, some will be reserved for seed and I can send some out from that as well. Let's hope they make it.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
The Patio
I suppose I should have uploaded the shots of the patio earlier, but I promise to do so tonight. Certain flowers are emerging, some plants that were on their last legs are back and stong, and I have some herbs and other plants thriving, too.
Marcie loved our plants a lot, and tended them very carefully. The people I leave behind here will have a shot at having them for themselves, except for a few I want for me. Write me if you want to reserve one.
F.
Marcie loved our plants a lot, and tended them very carefully. The people I leave behind here will have a shot at having them for themselves, except for a few I want for me. Write me if you want to reserve one.
F.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Reviving The Birthday Spirit (Conclusion)
I knew Marcie would not settle for an ice cream cake on my birthday, but I also knew that, since she had talked them up so much, she might wait before she pressed. Wait, she did. In the mean time, I decided on the cake I really wanted.
As was typical between us, an impasse meant that we both waited for an advantageous moment before we upset the apple cart. Marcie had one planned.
The week before my birthday saw her tip her hand. Not that she had a choice. Her gift to me arrived with a harried-looking Barbara in tow.
"Oh, honey!" she said. "I didn't know you were home. Well, happy birthday!"
And there he was, a little puff of fur, half asleep and clinging to her dress. Under the closest of observation I took him from her and he mewed in protest.
He was tiny and soft, and as I held him, cupped in my hands, he stood, arched his back and stretched, his little needlenails poking into my palm.
All that Marcie knew was that he fit in one of my hands. "Oh my god, he fits in one hand. How precious is that?" she asked her mother.
Barbara nodded and "mmhmm'd" a little neutrally. I would find out later that Seamus had been in her house for a week, terrorizing Samantha, their older cat, and driving her insane.
"Well, happy birthday ahead of time, Frank," she said, taking her keys and walking back to her little Sprint.
"Thanks, Barbara," I said, smiling at the yet-unnamed and deceptively calm furball in my hands.
"So what is your name?" I asked him.
He looked at me sedately and made a silent meow. His striped chunks of fur and white belly told me little about him, except some possible Maine Coon lineage. But his green eyes were a clue.
Marcie wanted to name her male cats Angus and Fergus, girls would be Talulah Belle and (as was one of her nicknames) Tink. I liked the idea of a good Irish name.
"He doesn't have a name," Marcie said. "You have to name him."
"I think he's a Seamus," I said.
"Seamus," she said. "Oh, honey. I like that name. Like Seamus Heaney, the writer?"
I nodded and Seamus decided to look to the ground. I caught him and we went inside.
We played to his exhaustion with him that afternoon, then Marcie cooked some dinner. She wandered out and smiled, pleased with herself, hands on her hips. Her gift had been a big success. Seamus slept on my shoulder.
"So I have to order you ice cream birthday cake tomorrow," she said. "I hope you like it, honey."
I looked up and smiled. "Well, it's like having cake and ice cream all at once, I guess. Do they have German Chocolate cake versions? That's what I really want."
Her eyes lit up and she shook her head. "Oh, no, honey. They have pretty basic, set recipes with ice cream. It's not really even cake, really."
I feigned thought and then some disappointment. "That's a bummer. I have a craving for some German Chocolate cake with pecans..."
"Oh, I can make you that!" she said, plopping down next to me. "Then we can just buy some ice cream and eat a normal birthday dessert. What do you think?"
She set her hand on my forearm and bit her lower lip. She was stoked.
"That sounds good," I said. "We'll do that instead. I wanted to try your baking, anyways. We can get an ice cream cake some other time."
She clapped her hands a few times and then slapped her thighs as she got up. "I am very excited to bake for you," she said. "I think you're going to love your cake."
She brought dinner, and Seamus woke to wander about begging by our feet. Pieces of chicken slipped off my plate to him "accidentally." It is a continued tradition, of course.
Marcie shook her head as a piece fell from my plate. "So, honey, I am glad you want to celebrate your birthday, and it was sweet of you to say I was the reason you had to celebrate, but why are you so anti-birthday?"
I shrugged and I let it all out. "I will be 24 and I am just finishing my first year of college," I said. "I will be six years behind most of my peers from high school."
She looked at me as if I were insane.
"I am barely on my feet and don't have a solid job, I have to scrape a lot to get by, and some of my friends are already in their careers," I continued. "I just don't feel like I have anything to celebrate, accomplishment-wise. I'm behind."
She looked at me with a look of near-disgust on her face and rolled her eyes. Her fork clattered on her plate.
"That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard," she started. "You're a straight-A student, you have two jobs at the college, you are respected, you are a member of student government and you work on the side, too."
She picked at her sun-dried tomatoes and bread, then looked over, shaking her head, "You saw a lot of the world and you have lived and struggled and overcome more crap than almost anyone who goes straight to college ever will."
"I don't care who graduates before me," she added. "Ive been to Europe twice, had a lot of fun and worked and paid my own way through. Nobody gets any credit but me. And when you finish, you'll be able to say the same thing."
I leaned over and I kissed her as she turned to continue after gnoshing a bit on her dinner. "Thank you," I said.
I had heard a lot of the ideas of my being behind from a generation of people who thought door closed at certain times. Some of those gems I remember still, like "No college degree by 22? It's too late to go back..." and "Still in school at 23? You must be a professional student..."
Luckily I was with a woman with a sense of adventure, a lust for life and a disdain for convention and conservatism. Her opinion was that the quality of the life lived mattered more than the pace at which it accumulated goods or achieved milestones.
That next week, she made me a delicious dinner of steak and broccoli, rice and a grand salad. We ate a German Chocolate cake chock full of pecans. We enjoyed feeding a little puff of personality-laced fur teriyaki beef.
She came up with more gifts for me first birthday, but she had already given me the greatest one in that little bit of sage observation, annoyed as she was in delivering it. Of course, Seamus was a close second, but I digress.
She fit a lot into her life because she was never in a rush to do what everyone else wanted her to or decided was important. Doing it your own way was what made something special, not some arbitrary right way.
And if, as Marcie observed, people were impatient with you about how long you took, then make them wait a little longer and enjoy that, too.
Of course, she eventually taught me how to do that with bacon.
As was typical between us, an impasse meant that we both waited for an advantageous moment before we upset the apple cart. Marcie had one planned.
The week before my birthday saw her tip her hand. Not that she had a choice. Her gift to me arrived with a harried-looking Barbara in tow.
"Oh, honey!" she said. "I didn't know you were home. Well, happy birthday!"
And there he was, a little puff of fur, half asleep and clinging to her dress. Under the closest of observation I took him from her and he mewed in protest.
He was tiny and soft, and as I held him, cupped in my hands, he stood, arched his back and stretched, his little needlenails poking into my palm.
All that Marcie knew was that he fit in one of my hands. "Oh my god, he fits in one hand. How precious is that?" she asked her mother.
Barbara nodded and "mmhmm'd" a little neutrally. I would find out later that Seamus had been in her house for a week, terrorizing Samantha, their older cat, and driving her insane.
"Well, happy birthday ahead of time, Frank," she said, taking her keys and walking back to her little Sprint.
"Thanks, Barbara," I said, smiling at the yet-unnamed and deceptively calm furball in my hands.
"So what is your name?" I asked him.
He looked at me sedately and made a silent meow. His striped chunks of fur and white belly told me little about him, except some possible Maine Coon lineage. But his green eyes were a clue.
Marcie wanted to name her male cats Angus and Fergus, girls would be Talulah Belle and (as was one of her nicknames) Tink. I liked the idea of a good Irish name.
"He doesn't have a name," Marcie said. "You have to name him."
"I think he's a Seamus," I said.
"Seamus," she said. "Oh, honey. I like that name. Like Seamus Heaney, the writer?"
I nodded and Seamus decided to look to the ground. I caught him and we went inside.
We played to his exhaustion with him that afternoon, then Marcie cooked some dinner. She wandered out and smiled, pleased with herself, hands on her hips. Her gift had been a big success. Seamus slept on my shoulder.
"So I have to order you ice cream birthday cake tomorrow," she said. "I hope you like it, honey."
I looked up and smiled. "Well, it's like having cake and ice cream all at once, I guess. Do they have German Chocolate cake versions? That's what I really want."
Her eyes lit up and she shook her head. "Oh, no, honey. They have pretty basic, set recipes with ice cream. It's not really even cake, really."
I feigned thought and then some disappointment. "That's a bummer. I have a craving for some German Chocolate cake with pecans..."
"Oh, I can make you that!" she said, plopping down next to me. "Then we can just buy some ice cream and eat a normal birthday dessert. What do you think?"
She set her hand on my forearm and bit her lower lip. She was stoked.
"That sounds good," I said. "We'll do that instead. I wanted to try your baking, anyways. We can get an ice cream cake some other time."
She clapped her hands a few times and then slapped her thighs as she got up. "I am very excited to bake for you," she said. "I think you're going to love your cake."
She brought dinner, and Seamus woke to wander about begging by our feet. Pieces of chicken slipped off my plate to him "accidentally." It is a continued tradition, of course.
Marcie shook her head as a piece fell from my plate. "So, honey, I am glad you want to celebrate your birthday, and it was sweet of you to say I was the reason you had to celebrate, but why are you so anti-birthday?"
I shrugged and I let it all out. "I will be 24 and I am just finishing my first year of college," I said. "I will be six years behind most of my peers from high school."
She looked at me as if I were insane.
"I am barely on my feet and don't have a solid job, I have to scrape a lot to get by, and some of my friends are already in their careers," I continued. "I just don't feel like I have anything to celebrate, accomplishment-wise. I'm behind."
She looked at me with a look of near-disgust on her face and rolled her eyes. Her fork clattered on her plate.
"That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard," she started. "You're a straight-A student, you have two jobs at the college, you are respected, you are a member of student government and you work on the side, too."
She picked at her sun-dried tomatoes and bread, then looked over, shaking her head, "You saw a lot of the world and you have lived and struggled and overcome more crap than almost anyone who goes straight to college ever will."
"I don't care who graduates before me," she added. "Ive been to Europe twice, had a lot of fun and worked and paid my own way through. Nobody gets any credit but me. And when you finish, you'll be able to say the same thing."
I leaned over and I kissed her as she turned to continue after gnoshing a bit on her dinner. "Thank you," I said.
I had heard a lot of the ideas of my being behind from a generation of people who thought door closed at certain times. Some of those gems I remember still, like "No college degree by 22? It's too late to go back..." and "Still in school at 23? You must be a professional student..."
Luckily I was with a woman with a sense of adventure, a lust for life and a disdain for convention and conservatism. Her opinion was that the quality of the life lived mattered more than the pace at which it accumulated goods or achieved milestones.
That next week, she made me a delicious dinner of steak and broccoli, rice and a grand salad. We ate a German Chocolate cake chock full of pecans. We enjoyed feeding a little puff of personality-laced fur teriyaki beef.
She came up with more gifts for me first birthday, but she had already given me the greatest one in that little bit of sage observation, annoyed as she was in delivering it. Of course, Seamus was a close second, but I digress.
She fit a lot into her life because she was never in a rush to do what everyone else wanted her to or decided was important. Doing it your own way was what made something special, not some arbitrary right way.
And if, as Marcie observed, people were impatient with you about how long you took, then make them wait a little longer and enjoy that, too.
Of course, she eventually taught me how to do that with bacon.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Marcie On Our Other Birthdays
I will finish my story about Marcie and birthdays and growing up and getting over blah blah. But I wanted to mention one little thing Marcie did for someone in the family.
My grandmother, as I have said, was like Marcie when it came to cooking. Unlike me, however, grandma was also a baker. Yes, I know I have mentioned her making me cakes for my birthday. She also made delicious cobblers, pies and a variety of items.
As she got on in years, grandma Pruett slowed down on the baking. This impacted a lot of people, but one in particular. My father had a special cake he liked.
Grandma Pruett made my father his pineapple upside down cake for his birthday. I don't know when she started doing this, but it was likely his choice for cake in his formative years, in Hawaii.
I will ask him later today over dinner at Pampas Argentine Grill.
My mother had made my father pineapple upside-down cake as well, from scratch with a yellow cake mix and pineapple juice in places where water was called for, and lots of brown sugar topping.
Of course, her departure meant my grandmother resumed preparign the treat for him. At any rate, as Grandma got on in years she did not continue with the cake-baking. It was just too much.
Marcie, luckily, having a father also raised in Hawaii, knew just what to do. She made my father his pineapple upside-down cakes for years on and off, delivering one at his birthday faithfully. She took great joy in it.
It's just another thing her departure leaves missing in our lives now. But I try to note all of them, because the big things are just part of the good she brought into the world. All the little things count, too, and bring pain in their absence.
My grandmother, as I have said, was like Marcie when it came to cooking. Unlike me, however, grandma was also a baker. Yes, I know I have mentioned her making me cakes for my birthday. She also made delicious cobblers, pies and a variety of items.
As she got on in years, grandma Pruett slowed down on the baking. This impacted a lot of people, but one in particular. My father had a special cake he liked.
Grandma Pruett made my father his pineapple upside down cake for his birthday. I don't know when she started doing this, but it was likely his choice for cake in his formative years, in Hawaii.
I will ask him later today over dinner at Pampas Argentine Grill.
My mother had made my father pineapple upside-down cake as well, from scratch with a yellow cake mix and pineapple juice in places where water was called for, and lots of brown sugar topping.
Of course, her departure meant my grandmother resumed preparign the treat for him. At any rate, as Grandma got on in years she did not continue with the cake-baking. It was just too much.
Marcie, luckily, having a father also raised in Hawaii, knew just what to do. She made my father his pineapple upside-down cakes for years on and off, delivering one at his birthday faithfully. She took great joy in it.
It's just another thing her departure leaves missing in our lives now. But I try to note all of them, because the big things are just part of the good she brought into the world. All the little things count, too, and bring pain in their absence.
Saturday, May 24, 2008
Marcie and Rainy Days (2) (R rating)
We were lulled to sleep by the steady little drumbeat of rain on our window and the street outside. Marcie curled tightly into me and was lightly snoring long before I stopped stroking her, turned out the light and fell into dreams myself.
I woke to delicious smells after several "attempted awakenings."
The scent of cinnamon and butter filled the bedroom. I looked groggily at the clock. It was only 7 a.m., but we had fallen asleep at 9, so I had been knocked out for 10 hours. I noted the blinds were down and the curtains were drawn, making the room a dark, cozy cocoon.
Then I noticed it. There was a plate on a tray next to the bed on Marcie's old wicker chest. On it sat two steaming cinnamon rolls, two cups of coffee, two grapefruit halves and a slab of ham, some of it cut up.
Marcie came in with a pitcher of orange juice and set it down, then jumped on the bed, sliding up and getting my hands in hers, kissing me down. My hand went by instinct to her ass, and she broke the kiss.
"Ah ah ah, noooo," she said. "You're going to sit up and have breakfast with me, then we are going for a walk. Then, maybe we will have some fun. And you need to brush your teeth like, right after breakfast. It's nasty."
She crawled to the end of the bed and sat, using the chest as a table of sorts, the raised tray just right on it, height-wise. We munched in contented silence.
"Thank you for breakfast in bed," I said, kissing her cheek. "That was very nice of you. God, I slept a long time."
She nodded and mopped some crusted cinnamon and icing off her plate with a bit of ham, something I could never do. I kissed a little halo of the spices and sweets off her lips in gratitude.
"You needed your sleep," she said. "You've been studying hard and you have been working a lot."
The happy silence was near-perfect. Something was amiss.
"Where's the bubbin?" I asked, referring to Seamus by a very early nickname.
"I trapped Seamus in the kitchen so we can eat in peace," she said.
As if on cue, a clatter of wooden dowels and the clap of a child gate hitting linoleum resounded from the kitchen.
"Oh, great, now we get a side order of fur with our breakfast," she said, laughing. "Speak of the devil..."
Seamus sauntered in casually, not really looking at us, then meowed as he slowly turned to face the food and peer at us over the edge of the service. I chuckled. We locked him in the room and ate in the front room instead.
We took our walk, up sixth to Balboa Park and through a place we both called "Squirrel Canyon," feeding the little beasties a very solid meal of peanuts and dried apricots. We languished on a bench that no longer exists there, kissing and groping, then made our way home.
We stomped every puddle we came to into oblivion gleefully.
We had just gotten in the door when Marcie turned to me and kissed me. "Let's go get some movies from Ken Video," she said.
I smiled and nodded, and the rain, as if on cue, began to pour outside. She grabbed an umbrella and, bundled in her big, down-stuffed parka, pulled me into a wintry, plush kiss under it.
We journeyed to First and Beech to catch the 11. Locals drove by, nervous and clumsy in the unfamiliar wetness around them. We walked the mid-day streets alone.
No transplants dared brave our storm, lest their vapid delusions of permanent sun be dashed.
The act of ownership of an umbrella was tantamount to sacrilege, it being the first sacrifice paid to the Sun God, San Diego. Owed on arrival, it was paid in haste and regretted in time.
The bus was abandoned and no passengers waited for it until well into Hillcrest. We sat in the back, her in my lap whispering her week's conversations and tidbits we forgot to cover the Friday night before, me staring happily and dazedly at the streetscape as it scrolled by.
We only made it to University and Richmond. Marcie simply pulled the cord and said "Let's go."
"I held her hand as we crossed over to the Ralph's lot. "What's up?" I asked, a little annoyed.
"We're going to get a movie at the Wherehouse and some groceries instead, is that okay?" she asked, looking at me very faux-angrily.
"Okay, baby," I said.
"Good, now shut up and follow me like a good puppy," she said, tugging me along by my hand. I slapped her ass and she cackled. I chased her into the Wherehouse. She rented "Tacones Lejanos" (High Heels), an Almodóvar film with Victoria Abril.
At Ralph's She bought three different cheeses, a block of feta, crackers, tomatoes and olives, tapenade and spinach greens, grapes, croutons and a number of seemingly random items, then two bottles of wine. We checked out and off we went.
I played grab-ass with my free hand and chased her out to wait for the bus, which pulled up just as the sky opened. She curled up in my lap and actually napped a little, then it was time to get off.
We packed everything away in the house and let Seamus out when the rain lulled a bit, watching him deal with the unfamiliar sensation of soggy ground, his paws shaking as he sniffed the alien smells of a less dusty neighborhood.
We were driven inside when a thunderclap scared Seamus back into the house at top speed and the rain came down in giant spattering blobs of water. We dried him and he parked himself in front of the heater.
We showered and warmed ourselves, but Marcie cut off any thought of play beyond the bathing and caressing.
"Go get the VCR set up when you get out. I'm going to start cooking and making our hors d'oeuvre," she said, slipping out of my grip and the shower.
"Moooovies and Caaaaaandlessssss!" I hooted in my falsetto.
She squealed, "You're so crazy, I love when you are like this," she said.
I peeked out from the shower at her as she dressed, holding myself and biting my lower lip, catching her eye and licking my lips, pretending to hide.
"You're a dirty man," she said, playfully. "Filthy pervert!"
I snaked a hand out and groped her as tried to slide her bra up. She squealed and left.
When I had dried off, I set up the VCR, carefully disassembling the rabbit ears and connecting the adapter. I checked everything and it looked good. The tape was rewound.
Marcie came out, hanging up her pink phone as smells began to waft from the kitchen. "Go to Kashou's and get some Amaretto Disaronno, okay? I want coffee drinks with dessert."
I did, wandering in the rain and returning after a 15-minute discussion of Middle Eastern politics. Marcie was upset. "Ah, I told him to keep you there for a while," she said.
"What?" I asked. "You told Mr. Kashou to spring a conversation on me? I thought I was late..."
"It's okay. Do you smell the stuff?" she asked, her smile belying that she knew I was salivating over her work already. "I wanted it all to be ready when you came home."
"Yes, but I have no idea what you made," I said. "I can't wait."
We feasted on baguette with tapenade and bruschetta and a topping of melted Parmesan, innumerable crackers and olives and cheeses, glass after glass of wine, a wonderful array of stuffed mushrooms and a Greek salad with feta tomatoes,a few red onion slivers, and spinach.
The movie was crazy. We both loved it and took turn stuffing grapes into each others' mouths when we laughed or chortled at the action on the screen.
By the time I had made Marcie a decaf Amaretto latte and myself a Crown Royal-Amaretto cream, she had baked a plate of cookies and set them out. It was well past 10 o'clock.
"Choc-o-late chiiiip!" I coyoted. "Cooooo-kieeees!"
"Ha HA! Hah!" she laughed, stuffing one in my mouth, which I ate messily as I stood there, letting chunks fall out onto the floor like a wild man.
I handed her the drink and set my own down. She sipped it as she giggled at me.
"Li-quor and seeeeex!" I howled, making her spew latte from her nose.
I helped her clean up, but her memory was jogged.
"I was so embarrassed yesterday," she said, coughing as she recovered. "The mailman totally heard us."
I sipped my coffee and shrugged. "He heard everything," I said. "That means he sat outside for a good few minutes listening."
"I gathered that, uh- huh," she said. She moved close, looking at me in her Harriet the Spy way, whispering, "Do you think he's a pervert?"
I kissed her and whispered, "Only if he stayed after he dropped off the package."
We finished the drinks, blew out the candles, put away the cookies, rewound the movie, and left the uneaten to Seamus's not-so-tender mercies, then went to the bedroom and finished the list of rainy day to-dos in fine form.
I woke to delicious smells after several "attempted awakenings."
The scent of cinnamon and butter filled the bedroom. I looked groggily at the clock. It was only 7 a.m., but we had fallen asleep at 9, so I had been knocked out for 10 hours. I noted the blinds were down and the curtains were drawn, making the room a dark, cozy cocoon.
Then I noticed it. There was a plate on a tray next to the bed on Marcie's old wicker chest. On it sat two steaming cinnamon rolls, two cups of coffee, two grapefruit halves and a slab of ham, some of it cut up.
Marcie came in with a pitcher of orange juice and set it down, then jumped on the bed, sliding up and getting my hands in hers, kissing me down. My hand went by instinct to her ass, and she broke the kiss.
"Ah ah ah, noooo," she said. "You're going to sit up and have breakfast with me, then we are going for a walk. Then, maybe we will have some fun. And you need to brush your teeth like, right after breakfast. It's nasty."
She crawled to the end of the bed and sat, using the chest as a table of sorts, the raised tray just right on it, height-wise. We munched in contented silence.
"Thank you for breakfast in bed," I said, kissing her cheek. "That was very nice of you. God, I slept a long time."
She nodded and mopped some crusted cinnamon and icing off her plate with a bit of ham, something I could never do. I kissed a little halo of the spices and sweets off her lips in gratitude.
"You needed your sleep," she said. "You've been studying hard and you have been working a lot."
The happy silence was near-perfect. Something was amiss.
"Where's the bubbin?" I asked, referring to Seamus by a very early nickname.
"I trapped Seamus in the kitchen so we can eat in peace," she said.
As if on cue, a clatter of wooden dowels and the clap of a child gate hitting linoleum resounded from the kitchen.
"Oh, great, now we get a side order of fur with our breakfast," she said, laughing. "Speak of the devil..."
Seamus sauntered in casually, not really looking at us, then meowed as he slowly turned to face the food and peer at us over the edge of the service. I chuckled. We locked him in the room and ate in the front room instead.
We took our walk, up sixth to Balboa Park and through a place we both called "Squirrel Canyon," feeding the little beasties a very solid meal of peanuts and dried apricots. We languished on a bench that no longer exists there, kissing and groping, then made our way home.
We stomped every puddle we came to into oblivion gleefully.
We had just gotten in the door when Marcie turned to me and kissed me. "Let's go get some movies from Ken Video," she said.
I smiled and nodded, and the rain, as if on cue, began to pour outside. She grabbed an umbrella and, bundled in her big, down-stuffed parka, pulled me into a wintry, plush kiss under it.
We journeyed to First and Beech to catch the 11. Locals drove by, nervous and clumsy in the unfamiliar wetness around them. We walked the mid-day streets alone.
No transplants dared brave our storm, lest their vapid delusions of permanent sun be dashed.
The act of ownership of an umbrella was tantamount to sacrilege, it being the first sacrifice paid to the Sun God, San Diego. Owed on arrival, it was paid in haste and regretted in time.
The bus was abandoned and no passengers waited for it until well into Hillcrest. We sat in the back, her in my lap whispering her week's conversations and tidbits we forgot to cover the Friday night before, me staring happily and dazedly at the streetscape as it scrolled by.
We only made it to University and Richmond. Marcie simply pulled the cord and said "Let's go."
"I held her hand as we crossed over to the Ralph's lot. "What's up?" I asked, a little annoyed.
"We're going to get a movie at the Wherehouse and some groceries instead, is that okay?" she asked, looking at me very faux-angrily.
"Okay, baby," I said.
"Good, now shut up and follow me like a good puppy," she said, tugging me along by my hand. I slapped her ass and she cackled. I chased her into the Wherehouse. She rented "Tacones Lejanos" (High Heels), an Almodóvar film with Victoria Abril.
At Ralph's She bought three different cheeses, a block of feta, crackers, tomatoes and olives, tapenade and spinach greens, grapes, croutons and a number of seemingly random items, then two bottles of wine. We checked out and off we went.
I played grab-ass with my free hand and chased her out to wait for the bus, which pulled up just as the sky opened. She curled up in my lap and actually napped a little, then it was time to get off.
We packed everything away in the house and let Seamus out when the rain lulled a bit, watching him deal with the unfamiliar sensation of soggy ground, his paws shaking as he sniffed the alien smells of a less dusty neighborhood.
We were driven inside when a thunderclap scared Seamus back into the house at top speed and the rain came down in giant spattering blobs of water. We dried him and he parked himself in front of the heater.
We showered and warmed ourselves, but Marcie cut off any thought of play beyond the bathing and caressing.
"Go get the VCR set up when you get out. I'm going to start cooking and making our hors d'oeuvre," she said, slipping out of my grip and the shower.
"Moooovies and Caaaaaandlessssss!" I hooted in my falsetto.
She squealed, "You're so crazy, I love when you are like this," she said.
I peeked out from the shower at her as she dressed, holding myself and biting my lower lip, catching her eye and licking my lips, pretending to hide.
"You're a dirty man," she said, playfully. "Filthy pervert!"
I snaked a hand out and groped her as tried to slide her bra up. She squealed and left.
When I had dried off, I set up the VCR, carefully disassembling the rabbit ears and connecting the adapter. I checked everything and it looked good. The tape was rewound.
Marcie came out, hanging up her pink phone as smells began to waft from the kitchen. "Go to Kashou's and get some Amaretto Disaronno, okay? I want coffee drinks with dessert."
I did, wandering in the rain and returning after a 15-minute discussion of Middle Eastern politics. Marcie was upset. "Ah, I told him to keep you there for a while," she said.
"What?" I asked. "You told Mr. Kashou to spring a conversation on me? I thought I was late..."
"It's okay. Do you smell the stuff?" she asked, her smile belying that she knew I was salivating over her work already. "I wanted it all to be ready when you came home."
"Yes, but I have no idea what you made," I said. "I can't wait."
We feasted on baguette with tapenade and bruschetta and a topping of melted Parmesan, innumerable crackers and olives and cheeses, glass after glass of wine, a wonderful array of stuffed mushrooms and a Greek salad with feta tomatoes,a few red onion slivers, and spinach.
The movie was crazy. We both loved it and took turn stuffing grapes into each others' mouths when we laughed or chortled at the action on the screen.
By the time I had made Marcie a decaf Amaretto latte and myself a Crown Royal-Amaretto cream, she had baked a plate of cookies and set them out. It was well past 10 o'clock.
"Choc-o-late chiiiip!" I coyoted. "Cooooo-kieeees!"
"Ha HA! Hah!" she laughed, stuffing one in my mouth, which I ate messily as I stood there, letting chunks fall out onto the floor like a wild man.
I handed her the drink and set my own down. She sipped it as she giggled at me.
"Li-quor and seeeeex!" I howled, making her spew latte from her nose.
I helped her clean up, but her memory was jogged.
"I was so embarrassed yesterday," she said, coughing as she recovered. "The mailman totally heard us."
I sipped my coffee and shrugged. "He heard everything," I said. "That means he sat outside for a good few minutes listening."
"I gathered that, uh- huh," she said. She moved close, looking at me in her Harriet the Spy way, whispering, "Do you think he's a pervert?"
I kissed her and whispered, "Only if he stayed after he dropped off the package."
We finished the drinks, blew out the candles, put away the cookies, rewound the movie, and left the uneaten to Seamus's not-so-tender mercies, then went to the bedroom and finished the list of rainy day to-dos in fine form.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Little Memorial Acts
I am, of course, planning the larger memorial. But as I do, I find solace in doing small things from time to time in memory or honor of Marcie's spirit and to fill the emptiness she left, not just with me but the rest of the world. I try to do things she did so they continue to be done.
Marcie loved the spring greening of San Diego, and loved to walk and wander in places that were lush, no matter how fleetingly. A canyon I found for her she never did get to explore, so I went looking for what she would notice. The following is a Marcie's eye view of what would have caught her fancy there:
More tomorrow, and more substance with it. Good night, folks.
Marcie loved the spring greening of San Diego, and loved to walk and wander in places that were lush, no matter how fleetingly. A canyon I found for her she never did get to explore, so I went looking for what she would notice. The following is a Marcie's eye view of what would have caught her fancy there:
More tomorrow, and more substance with it. Good night, folks.
Saturday, May 17, 2008
Marcie's Favorite Bloom
Marcie's favorite flower or bouquet was not the dozen roses we all know. Not at all. Marcie liked her bouquets to be varied and wild, preferably hand-picked by me from the gardens and medians in our neighborhood, and I obliged. We also grew a few of our own.
Marcie's favorite source of flowers at home was the gardenia on our porch. I kept it watered and it bore many flowers for us. Today was the first one to bloom this year and the plant is covered in buds. I took a picture of it on a little container I recently bought at the school district's craft show:
Marcie's favorite source of flowers at home was the gardenia on our porch. I kept it watered and it bore many flowers for us. Today was the first one to bloom this year and the plant is covered in buds. I took a picture of it on a little container I recently bought at the school district's craft show:
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Taking the time to do it all
Well, folks, it looks like I will finally be catching up on all of my "to do" stuff this week. As of Friday, I am taking a week of leave from work. It has to be done. Some plans I have for the week include:
Wish me luck, and watch for the new store and other efforts. If everything goes well, who knows? Maybe I'll have time for a road trip. Maybe Humboldt this time...
Thanks for reading on. I know I owe all of you a wedding video, but it looks terrible and scratchy, so I am going to try to transfer it all over again this weekend. I do have a poem for tomorrow... and news later tonight.
Much love,
F.
- Start the online store and pack it with Marcie's and my things
- Begin selling off the household goods and the appliances
- Start building a memory box for Marcie so I can store what is meaningful enough to keep
- Rebuild a wardrobe, since everything is just too big now
- Tend to my financial health (tax appointment Saturday, portfolio adjustments)
- Start gathering consular information on the international transportation of ashen remains
- Crank out a few dozen résumés and cover letters for good-sounding jobs
- Reconnect with Marcie's family and get them over or take them out for a dinner
Wish me luck, and watch for the new store and other efforts. If everything goes well, who knows? Maybe I'll have time for a road trip. Maybe Humboldt this time...
Thanks for reading on. I know I owe all of you a wedding video, but it looks terrible and scratchy, so I am going to try to transfer it all over again this weekend. I do have a poem for tomorrow... and news later tonight.
Much love,
F.
Sunday, March 16, 2008
The Sunday Brunch Ritual
Sunday brunch with Marcie was always a treat. The meal was elaborate and dressed up in every possible way. As we were both cooks, it could get a bit excessive, but it was always delicious.
Marcie would cook up meat, whether ham, bacon, leftover Saturday steak, or sausage. She or I would whip up eggs or omelette's, to order. Then the potatos.
Marcie was a potato queen. From a potato, she could summon baked (included twice and thrice variations), fried, french fried, mashed, hashed, homestyle and scalloped goodness at will. Sundays were a potato bonanza of potential, all from scratch.
By far my favorite tater from Marcie's kitchen was the broiler homestyle roasted breakfast potato. This flavorful and somewhat healthful treat was always dressed up just right. Marcie would bake the potato, red or russet, for just a little time, then chop it up, still firm, toss it in oil and broil or bake it to crispy goodness as she made everything else.
It was delicious. We not only used variants of it for breakfast, but also to side along our roasts and various dinners. The potatoes were always delicious reheated, too. A recipe for you all to reproduce them with:
Mind you, it is hard for a person who eats breakfast early when he eats it at all, usually some cereal or fruit or a combo thereof, to wait on food. Adding in sloooooowwwwlyyyy cooked bacon, home fries and other wonderful-smelling items, and you have one impatient eater.
"You need to let me cook how I know how to and go do something else," I remember her saying after I urged Marcie to turn up the heat.
Marcie took an hour each Sunday to cook bacon, slowly bubbling it in its own juice and fat, spreading a pork smell all over the neighborhood. Ditto for ham. She took her time.
Maddening! I pushed a lot, and too far at times. She booted me out of the house once over it, and tossed all the food away twice aside from that after I groused about it not being ready yet.
"Why don't you just go down to Denny's and eat their breakfast food if you can't wait for me to cook for you?" she said, torqued at me just too far. She dumped the food into the trash can and hauled it out to the dumpster, infuriated.
I learned eventually. I left and went surfing or walking when she started cooking, and I tried to have a cup of coffee to hold down my hunger until she was ready to eat. Still, I would find myself going crazy with hunger when I got home.
Which I think she rather enjoyed, as long as I kept my mouth shut and ate gratefully, which I alwats did eventually.
This little meal, this ritual, was just one that Marcie and I shared. Many other meals we cooked were also cooperative efforts, complementary dishes put together on a whim with indulgent details. I do not hold out much hope of finding anything like it ever again, but at least we had it, and eventually got it right.
Marcie would cook up meat, whether ham, bacon, leftover Saturday steak, or sausage. She or I would whip up eggs or omelette's, to order. Then the potatos.
Marcie was a potato queen. From a potato, she could summon baked (included twice and thrice variations), fried, french fried, mashed, hashed, homestyle and scalloped goodness at will. Sundays were a potato bonanza of potential, all from scratch.
By far my favorite tater from Marcie's kitchen was the broiler homestyle roasted breakfast potato. This flavorful and somewhat healthful treat was always dressed up just right. Marcie would bake the potato, red or russet, for just a little time, then chop it up, still firm, toss it in oil and broil or bake it to crispy goodness as she made everything else.
It was delicious. We not only used variants of it for breakfast, but also to side along our roasts and various dinners. The potatoes were always delicious reheated, too. A recipe for you all to reproduce them with:
Marcie's Roasted Breakfast Potato
1 potato per person (two if of the small rose variety)
2 mushrooms per potato
1 tsp per potato dried onions
1 tbsp olive or canola oil
cayenne pepper*
black pepper*
Sea salt*
dash of sage*
*(use what you like!)Bake or microwave the potatoes until about halfway cooked. Chop them into small disks or wedges, as you prefer. Heat the broiler to 500 degrees or 450 if roasting, and toss the potato slices with the chopped mushrooms and dried onions and oil in a small bowl. Arrange it all on aluminum foil on broiler or cookie sheet. Broil for 10-15 minutes or until lightly browned or crisp. Roast for 25-40 minutes, or until browned as above.
To this we would sometimes add special breads, from waffles to pancakes, toast to cinnamon rolls from Hob Nob Hill. But by far Marcie's favorite was my French toast. I took pride in whipping up fluffy, light and well-flavored French toast for her.
Another recipe I hope you will enjoy:
Frank's French Toast
2 pieces of soda/sweet bread per person
1 egg (or equivalent egg substitute) per person or 2 pieces of bread
1 tbsp heavy cream or half and half (milk okay, too) per egg
1 tbsp cinnamon
2 tsp powdered or confectioner's sugar
dash of nutmeg for each slice of bread
syrup and butter (to taste)
slice of apple (garnish)
mint leaves (garnish)
Combine the egg, cream/milk, cinnamon and sugar in a bowl and mix it well. Heat some vegetable or canola oil in a pan (butter is okay, too) big enough for two pieces of bread (at least) to lay flat. Prepare some syrup , either by heating it in second pan or in the microwave. If making roasted or broiled potatoes, a steel bowl in the oven will also do. You can add the nutmeg to the syrup.
When the pan is hot (about medium heat to high-medium will do), quickly dip the soda or sweet bread into the egg mixture and then flip it, coating both faces lightly. Do not let the bread sit in the mix. Place the egg-washed bread on the pan and cook until just brown on each side.
Add a pat of butter if desired to the hot syrup. As soon as you finish cooking the French toast, garnish the bread with apple slices and pour syrup over it all. Top with the mint leaf garnish and a dash of nutmeg if it is not in your syrup.
This was the core of our best breakfasts, our anchoring repasts for calm and luxurious Sundays in our mutual company. Occasionally, I would make Marcie a screwdriver or a mimosa, taking one myself. That almost always fueled a wonderful after-breakfast treat or languid make-out session on the couch.
I replicated it all today for old time's sake, changing out healthy options for everything as I could, and sighing that I would not be kissing her or taking a contented nap in her lap. But it was nice to do something I know she would be happy to see me do what I grew fond of distinctly under her influence.
But it was not always joy on Sunday mornings for my sweetie and I. Marcie and I had one nearly unresolvable difference. It concerned when we ate, and it could get heated at times. Marcie could not eat a heavy breakfast too early in the morning. I was starved from the moment I awoke.
I replicated it all today for old time's sake, changing out healthy options for everything as I could, and sighing that I would not be kissing her or taking a contented nap in her lap. But it was nice to do something I know she would be happy to see me do what I grew fond of distinctly under her influence.
But it was not always joy on Sunday mornings for my sweetie and I. Marcie and I had one nearly unresolvable difference. It concerned when we ate, and it could get heated at times. Marcie could not eat a heavy breakfast too early in the morning. I was starved from the moment I awoke.
Mind you, it is hard for a person who eats breakfast early when he eats it at all, usually some cereal or fruit or a combo thereof, to wait on food. Adding in sloooooowwwwlyyyy cooked bacon, home fries and other wonderful-smelling items, and you have one impatient eater.
"You need to let me cook how I know how to and go do something else," I remember her saying after I urged Marcie to turn up the heat.
Marcie took an hour each Sunday to cook bacon, slowly bubbling it in its own juice and fat, spreading a pork smell all over the neighborhood. Ditto for ham. She took her time.
Maddening! I pushed a lot, and too far at times. She booted me out of the house once over it, and tossed all the food away twice aside from that after I groused about it not being ready yet.
"Why don't you just go down to Denny's and eat their breakfast food if you can't wait for me to cook for you?" she said, torqued at me just too far. She dumped the food into the trash can and hauled it out to the dumpster, infuriated.
I learned eventually. I left and went surfing or walking when she started cooking, and I tried to have a cup of coffee to hold down my hunger until she was ready to eat. Still, I would find myself going crazy with hunger when I got home.
Which I think she rather enjoyed, as long as I kept my mouth shut and ate gratefully, which I alwats did eventually.
This little meal, this ritual, was just one that Marcie and I shared. Many other meals we cooked were also cooperative efforts, complementary dishes put together on a whim with indulgent details. I do not hold out much hope of finding anything like it ever again, but at least we had it, and eventually got it right.
Monday, March 10, 2008
Chrissy's visit
So, Chrissy finally made it by today, and we shared a very Marcie-memorializing Rubio's meal. Chrissy had the taco combo while I had the mahi mahi combo. It was nice. Chrissy divulged that, since she's now living in Rockford, Illinois, fish tacos are far from common fare.
We went through a couple of albums and I, of course, let her pick out a few pictures. I let her take a very precious one from Terri Dambrose's wedding, of Marcie getting drunk with them, drinking straight from a bottle, her drss off her shoulder on one side.
God, she was so hot. Marcie definitely outshined the bride (sorry, Terri).
Back to the visit. So, Chrissy was a good sport and looked through Marcie's things, taking a few scents and creams, which I hope bring her joy and good memories of my baby. I also, since they shared a Lucy love, gave her Marcie's Lucy monopoly set.
She also selected a Matisse book for her coffee table and one other. Marcie would have been very pleased to see her take them, and I know I am.
The visit was over all too soon. However, I will be trying to make a trip to Rockford sometime soon, when neither mosquitoes nor cold bite one overmuch. We'll see how life unfolds.
I'll post some pictures of Chrissy and Marcie over the years when I get a chance. G'nite, folks.
We went through a couple of albums and I, of course, let her pick out a few pictures. I let her take a very precious one from Terri Dambrose's wedding, of Marcie getting drunk with them, drinking straight from a bottle, her drss off her shoulder on one side.
God, she was so hot. Marcie definitely outshined the bride (sorry, Terri).
Back to the visit. So, Chrissy was a good sport and looked through Marcie's things, taking a few scents and creams, which I hope bring her joy and good memories of my baby. I also, since they shared a Lucy love, gave her Marcie's Lucy monopoly set.
She also selected a Matisse book for her coffee table and one other. Marcie would have been very pleased to see her take them, and I know I am.
The visit was over all too soon. However, I will be trying to make a trip to Rockford sometime soon, when neither mosquitoes nor cold bite one overmuch. We'll see how life unfolds.
I'll post some pictures of Chrissy and Marcie over the years when I get a chance. G'nite, folks.
Friday, February 8, 2008
To my wonderfully supportive coworker
To my generous and kind coworker,
You have not told me your name, and I understand that. Whatever it is and whoever you are, I wanted to thank you with a special post.
You have sent me cards and posted comments, and now you have sent flowers. I am deeply touched. I received it today, and I thank you for your prayers and thoughts as well as the wonderful tulips. Marcie would have loved them.
So that you know, since I cannot tell you in person, it has been difficult, but the burden has been lightened by the people who surround me at work and in my personal life, all of whom have been very good to me and extremely supportive. That means you, too, of course. I am floored by your patronage and thoughtfulness.
I will have the tulips on my desk at work, as they seem ill-suited to my porch, but I had to bring them home and put them among my little arrangement of plants. Here they are, comfy and surrounded but highlighted, not obscured, by their duller peers:
And here they are in a closeup for the rest of you:
Thank you to all of my coworkers, friends, family and readers. You have all been wonderful and I hope that I can return that in some small way through this and other endeavors I intend to share with you all.
Good night,
F.
You have not told me your name, and I understand that. Whatever it is and whoever you are, I wanted to thank you with a special post.
You have sent me cards and posted comments, and now you have sent flowers. I am deeply touched. I received it today, and I thank you for your prayers and thoughts as well as the wonderful tulips. Marcie would have loved them.
So that you know, since I cannot tell you in person, it has been difficult, but the burden has been lightened by the people who surround me at work and in my personal life, all of whom have been very good to me and extremely supportive. That means you, too, of course. I am floored by your patronage and thoughtfulness.
I will have the tulips on my desk at work, as they seem ill-suited to my porch, but I had to bring them home and put them among my little arrangement of plants. Here they are, comfy and surrounded but highlighted, not obscured, by their duller peers:
And here they are in a closeup for the rest of you:
Thank you to all of my coworkers, friends, family and readers. You have all been wonderful and I hope that I can return that in some small way through this and other endeavors I intend to share with you all.
Good night,
F.